


The Morning After The Morning After The Apocalypse

by mirawonderfulstar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Breakfast, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 15:10:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: Crowley has an existential crisis. Aziraphale makes scones.





	The Morning After The Morning After The Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post on tumblr that was like "my favorite trope is when one character wakes up the morning after alone in their bed and thinks oh, of course they left me, but then the other character is up making them breakfast" and couldn't stop thinking about it so here's this I guess.

Edit: [darlingsweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingsweet/pseuds/darlingsweet) was kind enough to podfic this! [Here is the link.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13465470)

 

It was the morning after the morning after the apocalypse. Crowley’s eyes were pinched closed against the glare of the sun shining through his bedroom window, and he was weighing the pros and cons of miracling his hangover away. 

Pros: he could open his eyes and get out of bed and go about his day.

Cons: he’d have to open his eyes and get out of bed and go about his day. And that meant he’d be right back to the question that had bothered him all the previous day, the huge, impossible question of 'what next?'

Crowley didn’t even need to open his eyes to know that he was alone. He was spread out across his bed, his face buried in the pillows on the left side. He usually slept on the right. The scent of rosewood and dust lingered on the pillowcase, and Crowley took a shaky breath. 

He’d met Aziraphale at St James’s and they’d fed the ducks, talked about ineffability. They’d gone to lunch. And then, in the moment when they stood up from their meal, Crowley had thought that he couldn’t bear to be parted from Aziraphale, not today. The sun was shining down on London and the bookshop and the Bentley were back the way they belonged and Crowley knew that if he and Aziraphale went their separate ways in the afternoon Crowley was going to go out and do something stupid that would likely wind up with him getting discorporated. So he invited himself back to Aziraphale’s bookshop where he’d pestered the angel as he took inventory of his new stock and did some entirely unnecessary cleaning. Eventually he’d snapped at Crowley to get out from under his feet and Crowley had offered to make them dinner. 

They’d gone back to Crowley’s flat and Crowley had miracled the ingredients for a pasta dish he knew Aziraphale was fond of into his pantry, and that’s when the pair had started drinking. Presumably Crowley had gotten dinner made, because he could remember Aziraphale expressing shock that it had been good, but the evening was by and large a blur. They’d drank themselves through several old bottles of wine and Crowley’s secret store of tequila and Aziraphale’s collection of absinthe, willed in from the rooms above his shop, and then they’d ended up on the couch together. Crowley could remember Aziraphale giggling in an undignified and endearing way, and he could remember moving to kiss him. 

They’d gone to bed together. There was no coming back from this, Crowley thought with a sigh, breathing in the scent of Aziraphale on his pillowcase. They’d gone to bed together, and Crowley had never wanted it to end, but of course it had and they’d fallen asleep, and now it was morning and Crowley was alone. 

He supposed he’d been silly to expect anything different. He was a demon, after all. Aziraphale was probably back in his bookshop, doing whatever it was he did in his free time and regretting that he’d allowed himself to get drunk enough to lose control of himself like that. Crowley was certainly regretting. He’d allowed the panic of Sunday, the crashing realization that he didn’t know what to do or what he was supposed to _be_ anymore, ruin the only good and constant thing he had. 

Demons can’t cry, and Crowley was finding this fact rather inconvenient at the moment. His feelings of anxiety, uncertainty, and general self-pity had built to a point where he didn’t know what to do with them, and would have been relieved to have some bodily release. As it was, he supposed he’d have to get up and do something. Maybe get dressed and cause some low-grade evil in the streets outside. That sounded good. 

He was rolling over, squinting against the sun and stubbornly refusing to get rid of his headache, when he heard a crash and a muttered swear from the kitchen of his flat. Crowley froze, sitting up in bed, turning his still narrowed eyes from the window to the door of the room. His heart was pounding very fast all of a sudden, because that had sounded like…

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called, wishing the hangover away in an instant and throwing himself out of bed. He slid a little on the hardwood floor as he all but ran from the bedroom and into the open kitchen, where Aziraphale was returning a plate to it’s unshattered state with a wave of his arm. 

“Oh. Crowley, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you yet.” He said, looking slightly shifty. 

“Yet?” Crowley stared around at the state of his kitchen. There was quite a lot of flour on the counter, and on Aziraphale, who was wearing a large green and red apron that looked like something somebody's mother would don for Christmas Day. 

“I’m making scones.” He said. “You don’t have any oranges so I used lemon zest.” 

“And apparently got it all over yourself.” Crowley pointed out. Aziraphale raised his chin haughtily. 

“Yes, well.” He dusted a hand across his considerable midsection, brushing flour off the apron and onto the floor. “You made such a nice dinner, I wanted to return the favor.” 

“Oh, is  _that_  why you’re making me breakfast.” Crowley asked, crossing his arms over his bare chest, suddenly very conscious of his state of undress. 

Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment. “No.” He said finally. “I suppose that’s not why.” He walked around the island, setting the apron on one of the barstools at the end as he went, and stood before Crowley a little awkwardly. Crowley wished he was wearing his sunglasses. Somehow Aziraphale looking him in the eye made him feel even more exposed than standing there in nothing but a pair of pajama pants. 

“Your hair looks ridiculous in the morning.” Aziraphale murmured, reaching out a hand and cupping Crowley’s cheek as he flattened a bit of his hair with his thumb. Crowley swallowed. He should say something, apologize, maybe, for what had happened. 

“I love you.” he blurted out instead, and felt his face burn.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale sighed. For one terrifying moment Crowley was sure he was going to laugh, or worse, hug him, but his mouth flitted into a smile. “I’ve known that for years.” 

Crowley opened and closed his mouth. “… _how many years?_ ” He asked, very put out. “Because _I’ve_ only known for three days.” 

Aziraphale waved his hand noncommittally. “Since the late 1800s.” 

“You could have  _said something_.” Crowley said, but without any real irritation. He actually felt an immense, sagging relief. 

“I’d always assumed it was something you’d have to figure out for yourself.” Aziraphale said with a shrug. “I love you, too, by the way.” 

“Oh.” Crowley said, sinking further into the feeling of relief. He might actually need to sit down soon, unless he wanted to fall right over. “That’s… good.” he made his way to the barstool that didn’t currently have Aziraphale’s horrible apron on it. 

The timer on the oven went off, and Aziraphale bustled back around to pull his scones out. The smell of citrus and cranberry and brown sugar filled the air. 

“Are you going to be alright?” Aziraphale asked him as he set the scones out onto a wire rack to cool that Crowley was certain he hadn’t had before. 

“Don’t be flippant with me, angel.” Crowley said wearily, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands and slumping forward against the island. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You seemed very out of sorts yesterday.” Aziraphale was now buttering a scone for himself. He pushed one towards Crowley as well.

Crowley closed his eyes. “What do we  _do_  now?” He asked. He nibbled at the scone. It was very good. 

“Personally, I’m planning to sell some of those first editions and then take a very long trip to Sicily. We haven’t been to Italy since Rome fell.” 

Crowley had not missed his pronoun choice. 

“Do I get a say in this?” 

“Do you _want_ one?” 

Crowley thought for a moment. “Sicily sounds wonderful, actually.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale beamed, and leaned across the counter to kiss him. 

It was the morning after the morning after the apocalypse, and it was looking like it would be a good day. 


End file.
